


Owe it All to You

by pantykinksam



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Birthday Fluff, Dean in Glasses, Dean's Birthday, Domestic Fluff, M/M, Old Age
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-26
Updated: 2016-01-26
Packaged: 2018-05-16 07:37:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5819854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pantykinksam/pseuds/pantykinksam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's birthday: except fast-forward 13 years into the future.<br/>Greying-haired wincest complete with Dean in an apron and glasses.<br/>Domestic fluff with a couple of mentions of underage Sam and sex but other than that :))</p>
            </blockquote>





	Owe it All to You

**Author's Note:**

> I know this is a day late, but hey, I'm past caring. Aged domestic-samdean never gets old anyway.

Sam sucks on a chili pepper at 4 am at the dining room table for no reason at all other than he can. It brings a stubborn heat with it at the back of his throat, a persistent ache on his tongue that burns deep into his mouth like the first time he kissed his brother.

There’s singing in the kitchen, sleepy, half-awake mumblings of some old Metallica song that Sam is entirely sick of, over in every sense of the word. But Dean is singing in the kitchen, so he kinda lets it go for now, lets it fall into the background like white noise - a dull thrum behind his eardrums like a faraway heartbeat. 

Three open envelopes stacked up in the middle of the table, clean sealing, torn-free, never closed. Sam grabs for them with a giant dead-weight of an arm, slamming it lazily against the wood. He slides the pepper behind his teeth to rest on his tongue and simultaneously slices open his finger on the first lip of the envelope in his hands.Hisses, but continues to thumb through its contents before he loses interest. 

Couple of phone bills and a letter from another retired hunter, asking to “catch up with you boys sometime”. 

Sam could really use a cigarette.

Behind him, headlights dip and dive behind tear tracks of highway strips, their little ‘hideout house’ - as Dean calls it - broadcasting their location to every flicker of a matchcar in the distance that chooses their highway to zip past. Sam’s beginning to think Dean likes it that way. After all, there’s nothing to hide from anymore. 

And then Dean’s there, right in front of him with his eyes half-lidded and his mouth set in a deep grin. Sam can almost hear their father’s voice in his ear. “Sleep light, son. Stay alive.” 

No surprise they’re both up before the asscrack of dawn, like most days. But today was special. 

Sam leans back in his chair, gives Dean that signature smirk, and lets Dean slip into his lap, an apron tied tightly around his slim waist, white fabric outlining his tan bare back. 

“Don’t give me that look, Sammy. Today’s gonna be real special. This time I made them from scratch.” 

Sam frowns. “Pretty sure the date entails that __I __make the breakfast.”

Dean puts his hands on Sam’s face, spreads his cheeks with two fingers.

“Nah, you suck ass at cooking, man. My pleasure, s’okay.” And then he’s grinning at Sam’s middle finger aimed high in his face. 

“Smile,” he cajoles, cupping Sam’s jaw with his thumbs behind Sam’s ears. Sam rolls his eyes, reaches for Dean’s neck. 

He slips Dean’s glasses off, thumb stroking the greying stubble stemming from his cheekbones to the dip of his chin. 

Dean wears glasses now. There’s a change Sam never thought he’d live to see.

He reaches around to set them against the table, warm skin of Dean’s back brushed with Sam’s wrist. And then he’s kissing Dean. He lets his head tip back, bringing Dean with him. Dean’s hand is slipping off his face, pushing the chair off of its two front legs by shoving Sam’s shoulders back. Sam goes willingly, blinking up at his brother in the yellow light of the dining room, bleeding through the dirty windows for the rest of the world to see. 

Sam’s lips still sting like chili peppers.

“You’re ah, you’re getting heavy, old man.” He murmurs against those lips, years of memorization having mapped them out for Sam with his eyes closed.

Half aware, Sam is distracted, hands busy working to slip off Dean’s apron by the two tassels tied into a messy bow in the back. 

Dean snorts and turns his head away. He rolls his eyes, and the white of his smile shows. “And you’re not getting any shorter, little brother.” 

A hand cups solidly around the back of Dean’s head, and Dean breathes deep, wet heat of jalapenos in his lungs. Doesn’t say anything more, just presses his nose to Sam’s, and Sam is warm and he likes that a lot, so they stay that way for a while. 

Dean smells like cheap laundry detergent and lazy, sweaty, birthday sex, and Sam supposes that’s appropriate. 

“Bitch,” Dean says, just to break the silence.

But Sam doesn’t think he means it the way he should. 

The chill air is raising the hairs on the newly bared skin of Dean’s chest, entirely exposed aside from a worn-out pair of over-bleached boxer briefs.

“Birthday bitch,” Sam says affectionately, his voice cracking, and then he stops abruptly. 

He falls forward, presses his forehead to his brother’s. 

There’s a long moment of silence again, but it’s Sam, so Dean Isn't worried

“S’rry, De,” he says, and his chest hitches, like he’s thirteen again. 

Lips back on Dean’s, eyes open and trusting, big and bright and wet. “Shit, De, we’re-” another kiss, quick and biting with a sharp in-drawn hiss. “You’re- we’re all grown up.” 

Dean doesn’t know what to say to that. So he presses his lips together, shakes his head. “Sammy, I’m 50 years old, as of, what, 4 hours ago? We’re way past grown-up.” 

Sam blinks, big eyes all spidery-red and breath still hitching. 

“No,” Sam says, far-off, strange and low. 

“No, I- I know that,” 

He drops his hands to his sides and pulls Dean to his feet with two long branches of arms. 

Sam doesn’t know what he’s talking about, trying to determine if this white hot burning in his ribcage is a weighting feeling of loss of the way things were or an overwhelming adoration of what they are today. 

Sam presses his lips together now, a thread of soft pink, eyes always on Dean.

“Whatever it is,” Dean murmurs, pulling Sam up to meet him now, “I know. Me too.” 

And then Sam’s on his knees, kissing down Dean’s stomach with his hair falling in his eyes, and Dean’s never been more grateful. 

50 years old on his birthday, and Sam’s on his knees for him like he’s 16 again, and they’ve got a house of their own on a main road with real neighbors and bills and greying beards and Dean has __glasses __.

50 years old, and Dean has tears in his eyes for the way things are now.


End file.
